


The Perfect Brother

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brotherhood, Brothers, Drama, Family, Other, Tragedy, Uchiha Clan-centric, Uchiha Massacre, Uchiha Sasuke-centric, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: Against the backdrop of the Uchiha Hide-out, Sasuke thinks of his brother after their fated battle comes to a true end.
Relationships: Uchiha Fugaku & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Mikoto & Uchiha Sasuke
Kudos: 9





	The Perfect Brother

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He would be interred, with hands colder than this rain, into a ditch. That was his fate. He cast aside the ideals, lifted to a sacrosanct doctrine in the Village and amongst his people. What a man . . . _evil_ , just lying there on the wet stones that had been merged together, by the deft hands of his people, into a sturdy floor—empty eyes gathering rain as they stared at a thing in the sky. What was he thinking now? A smile blossomed across Sasuke's lips. Dead men did not think; they did not feel; they did not . . . hope.

Gone was his older sibling. Evil. Evil. Evil. He could not think of another word to define the growing white in his eyes and that sordid blankness that told nothing. Death took from him his red—cast aside by his skin and eyes. It took everything from Men and left them empty as husks to be put into the graves for pretty funeral rites, a bit of tears, a maudlin show of grief and black garments.

What did he think of him in his final moments? Did it . . . _hurt?_ He winced. The smile was trembling, lips reddened by Nature’s scourge, threatening to fade slowly with a torturous rise in weakness. It was spreading in his limbs, festering, struggling to crunch through his feeble resolve, to stand with his back to the stone-wall that bore his clan's symbol in defiance.

It was still standing: Uchiha pride—his pride. He would never let it fall. Curse him, damn him, the ugly and evil child from fates. Greed and hate had enticed his older vestal soul, courted it beneath the fluttering sheets made of filth, raced it to a heated crescendo of rapture most Men knew. He took everything from him and left toys of sorrow in his little hands. He was empty. There was nothing in the world that he could call his own.

Awkwardly, he bent his head to look behind, but it was impossible to stare at a lifeless wall and the grooves, which made the symbol, with his back to it. He took in a sharp breath, whiffing smoke, wet earth, flora. Rain was still falling, and his eyes traced countless droplets that ran out from his brother's shining eyes and went into his black hair. There was little blood there in the corner of his slightly-parted lips. Rain could not dilute it into a lovely pink, a remnant of life. It had dried there, plastered to his skin now. He was whiter than he remembered, hair black as a moonless, undisturbed night. He was perfect—a toy. Dead. Used. Gone.

What did he feel now? He did not know. He did not _want_ to know. He took one step, his feet unable to carry his monstrous weight, and leant over, sandals scuffing on the stones. _Make sure, Sasuke—make sure!_ he heard a whisper echo from his head louder than thunder’s crashes; and so he stared, looked deep, peered long into a brother’s eyes—eyes that gazed without the red. He could not make his own come over, rise above his trembling spirit. In peace, it slept. His brother slept, too . . . like a babe.

No blood coursed from his befuddled mind through the throbbing arteries, to the shuddering heart that was caught in a web of surety and denials, anger and happiness, loss, and maybe, a bit of lingering love; but, surely, this was a triumph—a big one! He had aimed and had not missed. Evil, evil child, it lay dead after its misdeeds; it had paid for its cruel tricks. A trickster child, a naughty child, its playtime was over. Gone was the sun. Gone was his breath. Gone was the hope for a new morrow—nothing, no more.

He took another step, still making sure, still counting down the time. His dead brother had not blinked. His skin was growing whiter, harder. There was no colour in his lips anymore. With gentleness, rain was still falling, and the sky was still being lashed by venous lightning, which pumped strength into the dark veil thrown upon its visage; and his heart still evoked an indifference plagued with little seeds of past love, little seedlings that would grow and burrow out of the ground to become _something_ within. He did not know. He did not _want_ to know. _O', Kami . . ._

A black sort of mass came over his vision. He toppled forward but turned just in time before the floor met his face. His back hit the floor with a wet smack. He did not feel anything. His consciousness was going. He was fading. He would join him . . . maybe it was always meant to be this way.

Tinkling—rain was cold on his cheeks and breast. It would not stop—no sound broke its melody. Wave after wave of chill rushed to his bones. Was this . . . _it?_ He did not know how to feel. Everyone he knew was gone: the parents he loved—the brother he loved the most. He had killed him now with his own hands and felt little remorse in the bloody victory. He had smiled over his corpse, and he was still smiling, though the numbness in his body and face was making it very hard; he had to forcefully contort his face to do so.

It still gave him a sense of thrill. Gone. Dead. Gone. He wanted to look at that white visage, frozen by death’s staying vulgarities, one last time; so he twisted his back and lifted his battered body on one elbow. His head hung down in exhaustion, and he blinked away the raindrops to focus his vision on the deep cracks in the stones. He could see a bit better now. Then he heard something, a faint sound, and he slowly lifted his head to look beyond the mist and the holes raindrops wrought in its wispy form.

There was nothing in the rain but sounds and more sounds. He returned his eyes to his brother, a realisation hitting his heart with the mightiest blow: he was gone; he was dead; and _he_ was free! He had paid his dues! His father, his mother, his people would be proud that he avenged them, at last. At these thoughts, his spirit lightened and his vision swayed one more time; and he suddenly lost the will to struggle when pliant plant-like hands grabbed his body. The flames had yet to go out . . .

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**The End**


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